


there is never enough time

by aftermillennia



Series: I'll collect all of your stories [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, Light Angst, Minor Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Quynh | Noriko, Unspecified Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftermillennia/pseuds/aftermillennia
Summary: “Rest. You know where to find me,” Andromache murmurs, thumb stroking against the swell of Quỳnh’s bottom lip. Quỳnh hums, eyes barely open, and tips her head back further in invitation. Andromache’s barely-there smile makes Quỳnh’s heart beat heavily, the soft slide of their mouths makes it stutter.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Series: I'll collect all of your stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114997
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	there is never enough time

**Author's Note:**

> This is the flip side of the morning described in the previous part of this series but it is not necessary to read the previous part to understand this story. Also, this was very hastily edited so I apologize for any errors!

The bed shifts and Quỳnh wakes to the waning darkness of their room. Andromache sits on the edge of the mattress and rolls her shoulders, muscle tensing and relaxing enticingly. Quỳnh sighs and stretches across the patch of warmth left in Andromache’s wake to skim her fingers across her lower back. Andromache looks over her shoulder and Quỳnh meets her pale eyes with a smile, nails tracing the curve of her hip down the soft skin of her thigh. 

Andromache intercepts her trailing hand, pulls it towards her mouth and presses a kiss to Quỳnh’s knuckles. Her fingers are still tingling when Andromache moves out of reach. The bed shifts as Andromache gets to her feet and the sheets already feel colder. Quỳnh tips her head back against the pillows and listens to the soft footfalls circling the bed, barely startling at the touch that brushes along her cheek and settles against her jaw. 

“Rest. You know where to find me,” Andromache murmurs, thumb stroking against the swell of Quỳnh’s bottom lip. Quỳnh hums, eyes barely open, and tips her head back further in invitation. Andromache’s barely-there smile makes Quỳnh’s heart beat heavily, the soft slide of their mouths makes it stutter. 

Andromache pulls away, thumb pressing briefly against the curl of Quỳnh’s lips before she steps back once more. Quỳnh props herself up on her elbows and watches as Andromache carefully steps across the floorboards, pulling on trousers and a linen shirt as she goes. Her dark tangle of hair nearly reaches her tailbone and Quỳnh’s fingers itch with the urge to bury her hands in it and pull her close, pull her back to bed. Andromache pads to the doorway and looks over her shoulder again, huffing exasperatedly when she catches Quỳnh’s stare. “ _Rest_. We have nowhere to be.”

Andromache pulls the door closed behind her with a soft click. 

Quỳnh falls back against the bed and stretches her arms and legs as far as they will reach until several joints pop. She hums in satisfaction and rolls over to the other side of the bed, sheets tangled around her legs as she nuzzles the pillow. Andromache’s scent is still fresh from sleep and Quỳnh inhales greedily. Andromache says that Quỳnh smells like jasmine and when she presses close to the base of Quỳnh’s neck she takes great lungfuls as if she can’t get enough of it. Quỳnh’s never been able to pinpoint what exactly Andromache smells like but it’s ingrained into her memory, as integral to Andromache as her name. 

There is no true rest without Andromache beside her so she pushes the covers away and rolls out of bed to follow after throwing on clothing of her own. She steps out of their bedroom into the long hallway which stretches out to a common area suffused with light, Andromache a tall shadow at the very end of it. Quỳnh moves closer without thought and pulls the door closed behind her with more force than intended. The sound is loud in the still morning of their home and she winces and hopes that their companions have managed to rest through her carelessness. She pads quietly down the hallway and pauses outside the other bedroom; there is a soft rustle of sheets and light laughter that tapers off into a melodic hum that makes her smile — Nicolò is awake at least and she imagines Yusuf is somewhere in between. She rests her palm against their door and whispers a small wish for happiness and good health. 

Andromache once said that Quỳnh was tempting fate by asking but Quỳnh has wished for the protection of her family every day and every night since the death of her brother centuries ago. Lykon’s death nearly tore her in two. He was the best of them, the _youngest_ , and yet he was still the first to leave. Selfish as it may be to hope and pray and beg for the wellbeing of those she loves it will not stop her from doing so. Andromache, on nights when the weight of their grief is nearly stifling, joins her in hoping that the next day isn’t the last, that their last day will be of their own making. 

The places Quỳnh’s seen, the people she’s met, the multitude of things she’s tasted and touched and heard over millenia all pale in comparison to the woman who has made this unending life worth wanting. 

The common room is growing steadily brighter and Andromache has yet to move an inch from her place against the far window. Her eyes lazily track the procession of life outside of their home, the line of her shoulders softening as Quỳnh comes closer. 

“I should have known you would not listen.”

Quỳnh presses up against Andromache’s back, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist, and turns to rest her head against Andromache’s shoulder. The linen is slightly rough against her cheek but she presses closer still until Andromache covers Quỳnh’s hands with her own. 

“I never listen to your bad ideas,” Quỳnh says, grinning when Andromache huffs out a short laugh. Andromache strokes the back of Quỳnh’s hand for several moments of quiet. Quỳnh curls her arms tighter around Andromache and sighs at the warmth radiating off of every place that she touches. 

Andromache’s calluses catch against Quỳnh’s knuckles with each pass of her fingers. She leans back into Quỳnh’s embrace. “What do you think about going to the port today? We can get a lay of the land before the shipment arrives.”

Quỳnh hums, fingers drumming softly against Andromache’s belly. She rolls onto the balls of her feet and hooks her chin as best she can over Andromache’s shoulder and says, “I would be amenable to that idea _after_ we break fast.”

Andromache squeezes Quỳnh’s hands before pulling away only enough to turn around, their bodies reconnecting easily. Her hands slide under Andromache’s shirt and settle against the warm skin of her sides, the ebb of her breath presses her ribs against Quỳnh’s palms. Andromache’s arms are loosely looped around Quỳnh’s shoulders, one hand combing absentmindedly through the long curtain of her hair. Andromache’s eyes skate gently across Quỳnh’s face and the smallest smile is tucked away in the corner of her mouth, “And who, exactly, is going to make this meal?”

Quỳnh narrows her eyes, trying not to smile when Andromache does the same, and lightly pinches the skin of Andromache’s hip. “You’re no cook yourself, dearest.”

Andromache finally, finally smiles and Quỳnh remembers their first meeting in the desert. She was convinced that this specter of death that haunted her dreams for so long had finally come to claim her and she welcomed it greedily — if her maker came in the form of something so enticing, perhaps what remained after death would not be so bad. 

There’s some light shuffling down the hall and they both turn to listen to the sound of their companions finally rising. Andromache turns back to her, hand cupping the side of Quỳnh’s face as she leans in to press the lightest kiss against her mouth. The brush of her lips tickle when she speaks, “Does it count as cooking if I ask Nicolò to do it?”

Quỳnh tips her head back as she laughs and Andromache’s grin is pressed against her cheek as she joins her; Quỳnh wants it imprinted into her skin. Proof that life could be beautiful, that they can make life beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Here's your reminder that you are irreplaceable, you are not alone, and you are very, very loved. Stay safe! 
> 
> [@aftermillennia](https://aftermillennia.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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